Loss deepens commitment to pro-life efforts
For a full month following Sept. 11, I was numb. Safely in Albany, I had watched the towers collapse live on television, 160 miles and three hours away. I knew it was a horror, but it was distant. There was a dull ache inside that would not go away, but it was deep down, almost surreal.
Then, on Oct. 11, I discovered that I had lost an old friend amidst the toppling concrete and fallen debris of the World Trade Center. Brian McDonnell and I were friends in our teenage years. I met him at a youth group gathering at my church, St. Martha's in Uniondale, Long Island. He was shy and unpretentious, and always wore a dungaree jacket and a grin on his face that made people wonder what he'd been up to.
We did kid things together: rode the rides after eating too much candy at church bazaars, went to the movies (we both fell asleep at the Academy Award-winning "Chariots of Fire") and dared our friends to dump Fribbles over their heads at Friendly's.
Brian always made me laugh. He called me "Kate," which no one else ever did. He often talked about becoming a police officer; I am proud to know he accomplished that goal. Brian was assigned to the NYPD Emergency Services Squad No. 1 and was last seen rushing into the south tower.
My abstract and removed ache becomes a sharp, painful wound each time I try to imagine what Brian was doing, saying and feeling in his last moments on earth.
Brian was real. He was flesh and blood, and mind and spirit, and soul. He was a kind-hearted, decent human being with a wife and two small children. Though I had not talked with him in 20 years, he touched my life in a positive way. And now he is gone.
His death has taught me much about the vulnerability and preciousness of human life. Oh, not right away, of course. For many months following the news of his death I went about my daily life almost in slow motion, questioning the meaning of it all.
"So what?" "Who cares?" "Why bother?" -- those words echoed the words in my head as everything I did, at work and at play, seemed irrelevant and trivial compared to the reality and enormity of the attacks of Sept. 11.
Over time, however, Brian's life and death have reinforced the significance and meaning of my own life's work. Like so many other human beings, Brian was vulnerable. Neither his shield nor his gun could protect him against the hateful acts of terrorists. So many Americans are defenseless in much the same way, facing constant threats to human life: poverty, abortion, racism, violence, war, euthanasia.
I have spent the majority of my adult life trying to protect them, attempting to enshrine in our law and our culture some measure of respect for human life...striving to reveal the sacredness of the innocent infant in the womb, the barbarism of capital punishment, the inherent value and contributions of the poor, the sick and the needy, and the face of God in every man, woman and child. What work could possibly be more important?
As we continue to confront the cowardly enemies who displayed unimaginable disrespect for human life one year ago, such work becomes even more critical. Brian's death has reinvigorated my resolve to protect as many lives as I can and to proclaim Christ's Gospel of Life.
Brian's name has been inscribed in many plaques and monuments over the past 12 months. I often visit the State Police Officers Memorial at the Empire State Plaza in Albany and run my fingers over the letters. What an awesome legacy he leaves us: a call to "respect, protect, love and serve life, every human life!" (from Pope John Paul II's The Gospel of Life).
I will try even harder to do so. I will pass the message on. Thank you, Brian.
(Editor's note: The author is director of pro-life activities for the New York State Catholic Conference, which represents the bishops on matters of public policy.)